She never loved him...or did she?
Sometimes I wondered why he stuck around so long, why he let me treat him the way I did and why he never said or did anything about it. Often I told myself it was because he was a pussy, a weakling, in fact, often I told him that.
I said lots of shit like that to him, always putting him down, letting him know that he never stood a chance with me. Still, he never left me. Sometimes I wished he would, the longer he hung around the more I began to hate him. The more I hated him, the more I hurt him and in turn, hurt myself. I hated myself for hurting him, but I hated him more for letting me.
That boy had the world in his hands, everyone just begging to be let in, but he turned them all down and for what? For me? Seems ridiculous, even now. Maybe more now. Truthfully, he could have had any girl he wanted, could have had as many as he wanted too, but he turned them down everytime. When I asked him why he didn’t ever go for any of the girls who seemed to follow him everywhere he went, he shrugged, offering a small grin, muttering something about having everything he wanted right here. I think I laughed at him. I usually did.
You wouldn’t think a boy like him would go for someone like me, we’re not what you would call you’re typical “couple”, though the word is a big stretch for what we ever were. He had almost black hair, which girls always raved about, and was short, mere inches taller than me without heels, which I would often wear, just so he’d feel inferior. He was covered in tattoos, several of which he claimed were for me; I would sneer, tell him I thought they were repulsive. He used to laugh all of the time, everyone claimed it was contagious and they’d laugh right along with him. I only remember ever laughing at him. My least favourite of his features were his eyes though, they were a soft hazel and while thousands of girls stared dreamily into them through the posters on their walls I felt like there was nothing inside of them. Nothing inside of him. I preferred when his eyes were closed.
I had long blonde hair and green eyes, extremely petite and reaching a height of 5’4 on a good day. He used to tell me how beautiful I was, complimenting me almost everyday, telling me how much he loved me; I never returned the sentiment. He had enough people doing that, I didn’t want his ego too inflated or his hopes up. He could never win me. I wouldn't let him.
He had too much love for his own good, always smiling and trying to kiss me. I was good at finding some reason to snake out of his grasp and escape in the nick of time, embarrassing him in front of whoever we happened to be with. His cheeks used to get so red but he never gave up. He really should have.
I’m sure that his friends told him hundreds of times to just give up on me, in fact, I heard them several times, but he never listened; he always came back for more. A glutton for pain I suppose.
Sometimes, if I lay in the dark and close my eyes I can still see him, almost as clearly as if he was really here. I can watch the tears fall gracefully from his cheeks and hear the quiet sobbing, making his chest heave lightly as he reached up to wipe at the continuously flowing tears. His lip trembled, his brows furrowing as he looked sadly at me, only to have me sneer back at him.
“I don’t love you.” I’d said so calmly, like I was chatting about the weather, indifferent to the way his face fell instantly, the tears closely following as he stared in shock. “I was just passing the time.” Throwing the final dagger, I left the house, my bags already packed and waiting.
Sitting in the taxi, watching my home for the past two years disappear around the corner I felt the wetness on my cheeks. Shock flooded through me as I realized that they were tears. How strange. It almost seemed like I cared…almost.